


Jumonji's Prologue: Extended

by DerpyMcButtface



Series: Continue: Yes/No [3]
Category: Eyeshield 21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:32:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerpyMcButtface/pseuds/DerpyMcButtface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the extended, uncut version of Jumonji's Prologue. It is very long. Thank you for reading. It is less organized than the cut, polished version, and has not been edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumonji's Prologue: Extended

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prologue: Jumonji](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467031) by [DerpyMcButtface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerpyMcButtface/pseuds/DerpyMcButtface). 



Prologue 2: Jumonji

 

A loud thump sounds from the far end of the office. Jumonji starts and looks up in surprise, only to see Musashi’s head and shoulders emerging from the top of a swaying bamboo. He recognizes the potted plant from the wholesale storage in the back- Grown Bamboo (Thick), warehouse code 00426.   


“What’s that?” he asks, as the older man sets aside packets of colored paper and twist-ties on a stand next to the bamboo.

 

“For Tanabata,” Musashi replies simply. He reaches over to hang up a blank slip of paper on the tree. Seeing Jumonji’s confused glance at the empty paper, he laughs. “I don’t really do this kind of stuff,” he explains. “You want a paper?”

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “I dunno what to wish for anyways,” he admits.

 

Musashi shrugs as he walks away. “Then wish that you knew,” he suggests.

 

* * *

 

 

“Guys!” Teruhiko the Part-Time Guy comes running in, his acne-laden face flushed and short of breath.

 

“Huh? Togano stands up and grabs for the fire extinguisher. “Did the welder-“

 

“No- there’s a parade! O-Outside!” Teruhiko shouts, fidgeting anxiously.

 

Kuroki scoffs. “Psh. For kids.”

 

“I-It’s got girls. Like, they’re p-promoting a new i-idol group or something-“

 

Kuroki is the first one out the door.

 

The workers pile out of the Takekura Construction office and onto the sidewalk. Sure enough, they’re on the far left side of a pop-up stage (not a parade as Teruhiko had described it), where some girls are prancing a rather stiff routine. Some people are handing out flyers with the group’s information on it. Jumonji takes one out of politeness as the over-synthesized music blares out from portable speakers. From the photos, it seems the producers have gone after looks than actual skill or charm. Nevertheless, in an all-male workplace, it’s nothing to sniff at.

 

“T-They’re cute,” Teruhiko mumbles.

 

Togano snorts. “He’s a victim.”

 

“He’s a victim,” Shigeru agrees.

 

“It worked, they got a victim. Gonna send them your allowance every month?” Hakubun adds, and laughs as Teruhiko flushes, embarrassed.

 

“Hey, hey! Bro selfie! Bro selfie!” Kuroki shouts, crouching down and whipping his phone up into the air. Togano, Shigeru, and Hakubun immediately crowd in around him, dropping into familiar, practiced poses.

 

There’s a second as Togano blinks. “Um. Here, you too, Kazuki.”

 

They all peer at the phone screen when Kuroki lowers his hand.

 

“Perfect!” Shigeru declares, and Kuroki uploads it onto his Twitter.

 

“Hashtag: Teruhiko’s New Girlfriends,” Hakubun snorts.

 

“What a player!”

 

Jumonji’s blinking in the photo, but no one else seems to notice.

 

* * *

 

 

Tonight Jumonji gets home a bit early: six fifteen through the rush hour traffic. Work on the new Wc-Donald’s building had been delayed due to slow-drying cement, so having nothing to do, he cleaned up the site, gave the workers an early leave, and headed home himself.

 

The apartment is dark when he returns, although his wife should have gotten off of her office job an hour ago. He fumbles in the dark for a light switch.

 

Honoka’s work phone buzzes on the table. Jumonji ignores it until the high-pitched clinging sound is too much. He presses buttons without looking, trying to silence the ringtone, until the answering machine comes on speakerphone.

 

“Hello, this is Honoka Jumonji. I’m sorry I’m not here right now, but please leave a message after the tone. Thank you.”

 

It’s a familiar message, one that Jumonji is much too used to hearing. He turns away, but quickly picks up the phone again upon hearing the unknown caller’s message.

 

“Hey, it was great seeing you yesterday. Same time next week?” a husky male voice asks.

 

 _Wrong number? Possible. Maybe it’s a wrong number._ Jumonji heaves a sigh, slams the phone down, and throws his knapsack into the living room. It skids across the floor and knocks the table over. He flinches at the loud crash, but no shout of complaint comes from Honoka’s room.

 

“Honoka?” he calls out, only to be met with silence. He retrieves his bag, and sets the table upright.

 

It’s dinnertime. The fridge is nearly empty, except for a carton of soymilk and a bunch of bruised bananas. Resigned, Jumonji closes it, and grabs his wallet. He’s less sick of the microwavable convenience store food than of trying to call Honoka again.

 

* * *

 

 

Her name is Aika, Aika Hara.

 

Technically the first time he saw her must have been from the stands, during the Hashiritani Deers and the Kyoshin Poseidons match. Rather, it's only today he recalls that she must have been there as their manager, but on that day he hadn't actually noticed her any.

 

Actually, today he doesn't really notice her either at first, only wonders why there's a random woman walking in the office.

 

As Jumonji waits for one of their suppliers to get back on the line, he watches her idly as she approaches Tamahachi, and passively eavesdrops on their conversation.

 

"Good afternoon, Tamahachi." Her voice is surprisingly husky, as if she were recovering from a cold.

 

"Hello, Aika. Are you looking for Gen?"

 

"Yes, he said that he'd be back by six today?"

 

Tamahachi chuckles. "You know he'll never be back from a job early. I’ve not seen him get back earlier than seven lately.”

 

Aika just smiles. “Oh, that’s all right.”

 

“Can I get you anything?”

 

“No, thank you. Can I sit here while I wait?”

 

“Of course, make yourself at home.” Tamahachi gives her a gracious smile, and turns back to Jumonji. “Jumonji, did you get the steel rod specs in?”

 

“On hold with them,” he grunts.

 

“Oh, okay. Well, let me know when you do, I need to register it into inventory.” Tamahachi turns to go, but Jumonji makes a discreet motion towards the woman. “Customer?”

 

Tamahachi gives him a confused look. “Aika?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Uh no, she’s Musashi’s girlfriend.”

 

Jumonji snorts. “He has a girlfriend?”

 

“Um, yeah, you didn’t know?”

 

He shrugs. “Guess it’s about time. What, he’s thirty now?”

 

“He’s twenty-eight, actually- I mean, seems late to me too, but I married Chisato when I was twenty, and that’s early according to you guys.” Tamachi nods sagely. “Say, you married…”

 

“I was twenty-five.”

 

“That’s a good age to get married.”

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “You don’t stay twenty-five forever, though,” he explains, and tilts his head back into the phone.

 

* * *

It’s not long before Aika becomes a regular presence in the Takekura Construction office.

 

Everyday, she comes in at four, asks after Musashi, and laughs when the workers tell her without fail that he’ll be working late again.

 

Then, she asks if it would be okay for her to wait for him in the office, sits down, and takes out her crocheting. So far, Jumonji has seen her finish a large shawl, a hat, and a pair of fingerless gloves.

 

Feeling a bit bad for her having to wait there for hours, Jumonji approaches her one day. “Hey. Sorry Takekura’s always late. Maybe you should come nearer to seven,” he suggests.

 

Aika smiles. “Oh, I know that- but I don’t want to go into rush hour traffic, so I would be waiting around anyways,” she explains. “Besides, I’m only going to be crocheting- and I’d rather be doing that here than at home.”

 

She’s a gentle, unobtrusive presence, wrapped up in her crocheting except for an occasional pause to text on her phone. Jumonji doesn’t feel like he needs to entertain or mind her. In a way, it’s nice to have her there.

 

Jumonji leaves work at around five-thirty, so he rarely sees Musashi return. The few times he does though, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about his and Aika’s reunion, nothing that sticks out to him. They greet each other, she shows him her latest piece, helps him clean up the office, and they leave together.

 

He wonders why he was expecting something special.

 

* * *

 

“Five-thirty, we been here too long!” Shigeru shouts, slamming his toolbox closed with a slam. “Beer time! Who’s up?”

 

Kuroki, Togano, Hakubun jump to their feet. “About time!”

 

“Anyone else?” Shigeru calls out.

 

“Doctor’s appointment after this,” Jumonji lies.

 

“Seriously? For what?” Togano asks, concerned.

 

“Nothing- just check-up stuff. I keep putting it off but they finally caught up to me..”

 

Kuroki laughs. “Bastard, don’t enjoy your prostate exam too much,” he jokes, and even Jumonji snorts in amusement.

 

“I’ll recommend you next, asshole.”

 

“Asshole? Seriously?”

 

“Yeah, I said asshole!”

 

“No, _you!_ Well, seeya Monday. Hey, we gon’ to run into office workers again!” Kuroki complains as they pack up to leave.

 

“They’d better be careful apparently our stupid’s contagious,” Shigeru snorts.

 

“What? It’s _us_ who should be careful, Salaryman Syndrome is contagious too!”

 

“Tch. They don’t get that men with salary don’t have to be salarymen,” Hakubun agrees. “We’re cowboys.”

 

“ _You’re_ not!” the other three shout, their arguing disappearing from his hearing as the glass office doors close behind them.

 

Jumonji feels an emptiness as the office falls silent, but it’s less painful a feeling than being there with them and seeing firsthand the distance of their years apart. He looks around for busywork- things that don’t actually need to be done, things that even if done have a minimal impact on anything at all, but nevertheless, things he can do. Tonight, he settles for going back to check if all the job lists are filed away correctly.

 

He keeps at it for a while before closing the folders, shutting off his computer, and grabbing his bag.

 

“Good night, Ms. Hara,” he says, nodding in her general direction.

 

“Oh, you’re leaving?” Aika puts down her crocheting

 

“Well, nothing I can do until tomorrow. I might as well go home now,” he sighs.

 

Aika frowns. “I thought you said that you had a doctor’s appointment.”

 

“Um.” Jumonji is silent. Caught in his excuse, he tries to think of a way to save himself, but ends up just sighing.

 

“It’s fine. You’re probably tired,” she says.

 

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” Jumonji shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

 

“Well, good night, then.”

 

“You too.” Jumonji looks back at her as he exits, and she waves good-bye to him into the night.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning assface,” Kuroki grunts.

 

“Good morning, fishlips,” Jumonji replies. “Got your schedule for the week?”

 

Kuroki laughs. “Yeah, got it. Site Five? Go to hell!”

 

“No, _you_ go- in fact, go this afternoon. Site Five, have fun-“ Jumonji was interrupted by the office phone ringing. He waves a joking middle finger at Kuroki before picking up.

 

“Takekura Construction. Jumonji Kazuki speaking.”

 

A familiar drawl echoes from the phone, tinny through cables and metal. “Hello, this is Kid.”

 

“Oh, hey. You need something?” Jumonji absentmindedly twirls a pen in his hand. He had only ever met Kid from the opposite side of the football field, but the stuntman and co-owner of Western & Car Action Company occasionally hired Takekura Construction to modify vehicles for various shows. He had always come off as a bit odd, or eccentric- self-effacing to the point of paranoia. It puts him on edge, but nevertheless, Kid is a familiar face (or rather, familiar voice and familiar email address).

 

“Mmhmm, yes. I just need to check the status of an order.”

 

“All right. What’s the order number?”

 

“Well, that’s the problem, or else I’d have used the website… You see, I sort of lost the order number, but I had it coming anyways…”

 

It isn’t the first time he’s gotten this kind of call. Jumonji expertly pulls out a sheaf of folders from a shelf without needing to look at the label. “All right. What was the order, and what was it for?”

 

“A car.”

 

“Okay, Kid, you’re going to have to be a lot more specific. Like, what kind of car?” he asks, leafing through the folders. “Date ordered, model number, anything I can identify it by?”

 

Kid tells him.

 

Jumonji snorts in surprise. “Why do you need a stunt car that can drive on its side?”

 

“I don’t know… But whatever Tarantino asks for, Tarantino gets…”

 

“ _What?_ Quentin Tarantino? The one?” Jumonji drops the sheaf of folders.

 

“Oh dear… Did I jinx it? Oh well, things were going too well anyways…” Kid sighs, his breath blending in with the static on the other side.

 

“Quentin _fucking_ Tarantino?” Jumonji exclaims.

 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scream it from the rooftops, really,” the cowboy tells him tiredly.

 

The blonde gives a grunt of amusement.

 

“It’s just a small little job. Oh, I can’t tell you the specifics. It’s confidential, sorry. I can’t tell anyone until next press release,” Kid explains.

 

“If Quentin Tarantino is ordering a stunt that requires a car that can drive at a ninety degree angle, I don’t think it’s little,” Jumonji argues.

 

“You make it seem so important. But it’s nothing to get excited over, even if I could tell you,” the older man chuckles. “So… Status, please?”

 

Jumonji scans over the paper, down to the last update. “Hmm, oh, it says we’re waiting on Tetsuma to come in to fit the safety harness.”

 

“Really? All right, when can he come in?”

 

“Earliest is Wednesday at two in the afternoon. Does that work? For future reference, the order number is 830-2.”

 

“Yes, that’s good. All right, thank you.”

 

“No problem. Thanks for your business, but really, what are you doing over there?” Jumonji asks.

 

“Well, I’m making some tea right now…” Kid seems amused.

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “Well, if you can get autographs for us that’d be cool.”

 

“Will keep in mind. Well, thanks.” Kid hangs up with a click.

 

He whistles. Quentin fucking Tarantino. Who’d have guessed? Togano would go crazy if he heard they were working on something for the filmmaker.

 

“Hey, Shozo, you know order 830-2?”

 

Togano looks up and grins. “Yeah, can you imagine? Tetsuma on the big screen?” he shouts. “So jealous!”

 

Jumonji winces in surprise. “Oh, you know about the Quentin Tarantino car?”

 

“’Course, Shigeru told me first,” he brags.

 

“Yeah… Cool, eh?” Jumonji mumbles.

 

“It’s so awesome,” Togano sighs almost dreamily. “Anyways. Seeya, if I don’t get to the site, foreman’s gonna kill me. Man, that car!” he chuckles as he leaves.

 

Jumonji snaps at everyone for the rest of the day. Even after his late-afternoon biscuit break, he can’t shake the dark, grimy feeling from his mind. He crushes his soda can and deliberately throws it into the trash instead of the recycling.

 

He reaches for his sweater, only to find it gone. A surge of fury bursts in him, and Jumonji kicks his desk hard in frustration, ignoring the startled glances from the workers around him.I’m going to rip that sweater in two, he curses. And burn it- “Who’s seen my pullover?” he barks.

 

“Uh, you were just wearing it earlier-“

 

“I know!”

 

“Jumonji?” Aika’s voice is a bit startled. “Uh… Were you looking for this”

 

He turns around to see her holding up the missing sweater. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks.” The rage drains out of him, leaving him feeling embarrassed and a bit guilty. “Uh. Sorry, I just was looking for it.”

 

Aika proffers the missing garment, looking sheepish. “Sorry, I-“

 

Jumonji shakes his head quickly. “No, if you’re cold, you can borrow it, it’s fine-“

 

“-No, it’s just that I saw you ripped it yesterday, so while you were gone- I’m sorry, I should have told you first-“

 

He glances down at the ripped sleeve. The tear in the fleece has vanished, replaced by the tiniest pucker and neat, small stitches. “Wow. Uh, thanks. You didn’t have to, it looks like new…”

 

“Sorry, I should have asked first, but I’m just really OCD about this kind of stuff…” Aika laughs. “Gee. Makes me sound a bit crazy, doesn’t it, Mr. Jumonji?”

 

“No, really, thanks.” Jumonji avoids her eyes and nods as he puts the sweater on. It’s still warm from her touch. “T-Thanks.”

 

“What’s up with that?” Uzuru hisses when Jumonji returns to his desk. “Your jacket and all- like, she just picked it up and sewed it?”

 

“Leave it,” Jumonji grumbles.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good afternoon, Tamahachi.”

 

Jumonji straightens up in his chair as Aika arrives, decked out in steadily more and more knitwear as the autumn bears on. This week’s addition is a wide infinity scarf with a row of burnt umber tassels along the middle. He wonders how many pieces she has to cycle through, or if she even gets through all of them in one cold season. What does her closet look like- does she organize them by color? Size? How much time she spent on them? Somehow, the thought seems inappropriate, obscene to him, and he quickly turns back to his work.

 

“Oh, hey, Aika. Gen won’t be back until pretty late today- he’s checking all the sites, like, all of them.” Tamahachi gave her a fond smile.

 

Aika laughs. “Yeah, he told me. So, meanwhile, got anything for me to look over again?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, ‘course I do. That’d be great. Thanks, Aika.” Tamahachi hands her a stack of papers with a note clipped on. “I appreciate it.”

 

She settles down in her usual spot, holding a red pen like a dart ready to be thrown.

 

“Hmm?” Jumonji gives Tamahachi a questioning grunt. He had intended for it to be discreet, but the older man laughs aloud and motions towards the woman.

 

“Aika’s practically a part-time worker here,” he jokes. “Thanks, Aika. She’s our genius copy editor.”

 

Aika laughs awkwardly, unsure of the compliment. “Well… I guess after so much time counting stitches you get a feel for measuring things like… Well, I don’t know. Does knitting even have to do with anything?” Her cheeks have a dust of blush from the cold and from the sudden attention, and the freshness of it is strangely appealing to Jumonji.

 

So he looks away without smiling.

 

As the workday ends, Kuroki, Togano, and the others leave early today to catch a concert together. As they walk out chattering, they cluster suspiciously around a single familiar backpack, one that Jumonji knows has a secret compartment for beer cans and ice.

 

He tells himself that it really doesn’t matter that they didn’t invite him too- they all know he’d just refuse on another excuse again.

 

* * *

 

 

When it comes to numbers, Aika has surprisingly messy handwriting. It’s odd to Jumonji- somehow, he thought that all women would have the same neat print, like Anezaki or Riko the Reporter. But Aika’s numbers gap, bunch, and squeeze between the printed text like a tangle of curly yarn.

 

“Aika,” Jumonji calls.

 

“Huh? Yeah? Yes?” she peers up from a letter she’s correcting.

 

“Is this a seven or a ten?” he asks, coming over to show her the number in question.

 

“Actually, that’s a six.”

 

“Really?” Jumonji grunts in impatience. “I’ll change the formatting, thanks.”

 

“You already input all the layout stuff?” she asks a bit guiltily.

 

“Yeah, but it’s fine, I can go back and change it.”

 

“S-Sorry. Won’t happen again,” she promises, giving a little smile somewhere between winning and apologetic. Whenever Aika grins, one side of her lips lifts up faster than the other, so that just for a second, she looks quirky, perhaps even mischievous. He’s made a game out of it, to find that fleeting moment whenever she smiles, to catch her in that dreamy state somewhere between girl and woman.

 

She goes back to copyediting, and he goes back to re-formatting the documents. As the symbols blur across his screen, Jumonji wonders if Musashi watches for Aika’s smile too.

 

* * *

 

 

“Whoa!!! Way cool- hey, play it again-“

 

“Back! Back! No, not that far back, you idiot-“

 

“Fucking idiot, let me do it-“

 

“Let go, Shozo- gah!!” Shigeru scrambles to catch the falling laptop.

 

Togano, Kuroki, and Hakubun let out a long whine of relief as Shigeru dives under the machine and catches it before it hits the floor.

 

“Phew- gahhh, my ribs, my ribs-“

 

“Great going, thirty-four!” Hakubun snorts, addressing Shigeru by his old jersey number. “Now if only you hadn’t been a dumbass and-“

 

“Shut up, _dumbass!_ ”

 

“No, _you_ shut-“

 

“Okay, I got the scene back, I’m playing it, _dumbasses!_ ”

 

The movie plays again. Jumonji looks over. All four men are clustered around a desk, where Kuroki’s battered old laptop is precariously hooked up to its the biggest computer screen in the office. He recognizes the film, a new action one by Tarantino, but isn’t sure why his coworkers are so fixated over a car chase scene. Jumonji watches out of the corner of his eye as the vehicles flash across the screen, punctuated by sparks darting in the air and metal-on-metal shots. The enemy car is poignantly demonic, matte black and squat, and oddly familiar. Jumonji can’t put his finger on where he could have possibly seen such a strange car until the camera pans to the driver. He snorts in surprise- even behind the visor-like shades and the black leather, Tetsuma’s downturned mouth is unmistakable. No wonder the car is familiar- Takekura Construction, Order Number 830-2.

 

“Yeah!” Kuroki shrieks, his voice going up at least an octave. “Did you see the bullet holes and the gashes in the side? I did those! I did those! They’re removeable, for re-shooting-“

 

“Hey, that’s just a detail, I did the custom bumpers!” Togano brags. “Finished the wetsanding in a day and-“

 

“Play it again- I didn’t get to see the weathering on the back, I did that, you know-“

 

“Oh, was it _you_ who used up all the Gunmetal Matte 004 and didn’t tell anyone? Asshole-“

 

It’s not the volume- it is a construction office after all, and there is always something loud going on outside in the docking bay. But the casualness of their banter, the intimate way they hurl around obscenities, is intolerable for Jumonji. “Keep it down,” Jumonji orders, and all four turn around in surprise. Togano and Kuroki look at him in confusion, and then disbelief.

 

“Whatever,” Kuroki mutters, but mutes the video with a beep.

 

Jumonji immediately spins his chair back around, unable to meet their eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Really, it’s great, Aika! Really… Dense! Uh, it’s supposed to be dense, right? Well that’s good. I mean, well, hard cement is good, so hard cake must be… Better…” Tamahachi exclaims. “Haha! Keep it up!” Despite his cheerful words, he rushes towards the bathroom as quickly as politeness would allow.

 

Behind him, Jumonji hears Aika give a sigh.

 

“Good afternoon,” he says politely as she sits down. Her usual place has shifted over, from the back wall to the unoccupied desk next to his, now that she’s volunteering her eye for paperwork.

 

“Jumonji, do you think you’re an honest person?” Aika asks suddenly.

 

Jumonji looks over with a start. “What?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“What?”

 

Aika swings around in her swivel chair, her face pensive. Reluctantly, she takes out a wrapped chunk of something brown. “Here,” she says, dropping it onto his desk. It makes a dull thump when it hits, and Jumonji realizes, it’s supposed to be a cake.

 

“Uh, is this for me?”

 

“Yeah, if you promise you’ll tell me honestly what it tastes like,” she says.

 

It doesn’t look too bad- a bit overcooked on the outside, but nothing was obviously wrong with it. He takes a bite, and immediately realizes why Tamahachi was in such a hurry to leave. “It’s really good!” he lied.

 

Aika burst out laughing. “You said you’d be honest… Are you a really nice guy or something?”

 

He flushed. “What? No, I mean, it’s cake and…”

 

“At least you can tell it’s cake.”

 

“Okay, it’s kind of… Dry.”

 

One edge of her lip lifts a bit.

 

“It’s not tasteless. I mean, it’s really buttery, I think the taste is good. But it’s hard to bite into.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“It’s really hard.”

 

She grins.

 

“It reminds me a bit of spackling.”

 

Aika bursts out laughing. “There, that’s what I wanted to hear. You know, when all the others said it was _delicious-_ well, I already know it’s not really good, so I don’t mind being told that it’s not good- but when people feel like they have to be all polite to me…” She laughs. “It’s... You know.”

 

“Yeah.” Jumonji nods thoughtfully. “Well, are you getting into cooking?”

 

Aika winced. “No… I actually hate baking,” she admitted. “I don’t like the feel of the batter, and getting sticky egg juice everywhere, it’s so gross.”

 

“Well… You’re kinda okay at it for someone who hates it,” he commented.

 

She giggled. “Yeah… That’s what Gen said last night.”

 

Jumonji looked away. “Hmm.”

 

“It’s funny because he said it felt like eating insulation foam- and I asked him, ‘Gen, how do you know what _that’s_ like?’” Aika laughed again.

 

“I don’t know, I think it’s more like spackling,” Jumonji joked.

 

“See? That’s honest!” She laughs, her lips tipping against her off-white teeth. Her eyes are lively when they meet his, and she quickly flicks her gaze upwards towards the ceiling with the air of a daydreamer. “No wonder Gen uses you around so much. Yeah, I think you’re honest. ”

 

His hands burn in shame as he realizes, _No, no I’m not. Not at all._

 

* * *

 

 

Jumonji stares at the flyer. Beside him, the rest of the office peers at their copies in confusion. “…What am I looking at?” he asks dully. “And why… Why are you guys planning to walk across a giant dick-“

 

“This is really weird stuff,” Kokamaru the Electrician mutters, shifting up his glasses to get a better look at the advertisement.

 

Kuroki snatches the glossy paper away. “We just found out about it. Nendochin Shrine, they say that if you cross the bridge you’ll have amazing luck with girls,” he rattles off quickly, practically drooling at the last word.

 

The other workers fold away, throw away, or read their flyers eagerly, while Kuroki, Togano, Hakubun, and Shigeru thump each other on the back excitedly.

 

“Ha-Ha Road trip!” Shigeru screams, and Kuroki and Togano join him.

 

“Road trip! Road trip!’

 

“We’re gonna get girls!”

 

“We’re gonna see the shrine!”

 

“We’re gonna walk across a- oh, nevermind but _road trip!_ ”

 

“I’ll bring my cooler!” Hakubun says excitedly.

 

“Why do you need to be lucky with the ladies, Hakubun, you’re _married!_ ”

 

“That’s exactly why!” Hakubun snaps.

 

“Oh _no_ you idiot!” Togano and Shigeru bump him from both sides.

 

“Um. …Jumonji, what about you? You free this weekend?” Kuroki asks, still staring at the address of the shrine.

 

He imagines how it would be, driving down the forested roadways with Togano’s anime soundtracks blasting at full volume and Kuroki screaming at the GPS. The flicker of sunlight through the trees and the smell of the air outside Tokyo, the web of highways and trains stretching across valleys and along winding cliffs. Stopping for lunch at a hole-in-the-wall place, the whitewashed planks of roadstop towns. Hopefully pushing someone into the river, catching crawdads in the sewer. But then he imagines getting into the car, with Togano and Kuroki, and Shigeru and Hakubun- and Jumonji, sitting somewhere off to the side. Sitting there for hours, forced by virtue of presence to watch what he could never have again- “Naw, I don’t really feel like a long drive. Think I’m coming down with something.”

 

The excuse doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone was expecting him to say ‘yes’ anyways.

 

“Tough, asshole. Well, get well soon or die of SARS or something,” Kuroki scoffs half-heartedly.

 

When he’s alone again, Jumonji slumps in his seat and stares blankly at his hands. His chest feels hollow, his head feels heavy. The feeling of loss cascades over him again, and he has one simple thought: _I feel like shit._

* * *

 

 

_Sorry I haven’t been home. Been so busy at work, and I stayed over at Mariko’s place. See you soon! _:(´_ _.`_ _∠):__

 

He deletes Honoka’s text as soon as he gets it as usual, but finds himself regretting it this time.

 

 _Ok._ Jumonji texts back. He looks at the ceiling, sighs, and sends off another message: _You doing okay?_

 

The message surprises her enough so that she responds. His phone beeps: _Yes, very busy. And I’m very tired._

 

Jumonji’s fingers sweep across the phone screen. A message appears in his text box: are _you happy?_ But he quickly cancels the message, deletes the draft.

 

“I’m happy,” she had told him, so long ago. He didn’t remember where it was- maybe the park, maybe the mall. He didn’t remember what they were doing, but he remembered her smell: she had been wearing some citrusy fragrance, something crisp and clean, that day when she said that line. Professional, even, almost antiseptic. Honoka always changed perfume often, sometimes before the old bottle even ran out. Jumonji could never keep up with her scent. 

 

As he wonders what perfume she’s wearing today, his fingers type out the message again.

 

_To: Honoka_

_Message: Are you happy?_

 

He deletes it again, and gets back to work.

 

* * *

 

 

When Aika officially becomes a member of the office staff, Jumonji realizes the simple truth she has fought her entire life: that it doesn’t matter how much workspace she clears or organize, because her mess will sprawl out of its own accord to take up all room possible anyways. Even with two desks together, her space is still exactly as cluttered as it had been when she only had a shelf. The trail of hole punchers and white-out grinds to a halt precisely at the boundary between her desk and Jumonji’s.

 

It’s this boundary that he reaches across today, in order to stack her red pens back together. As he drops the pens back into their holder one by one, his eyes go to a white pile of knitting, two needles covered in a sheath of loops, occupying Aika’s chair.

 

It’s an unfinished piece, but even so, up close he can see the subtle, intricate textures and patterns- a long winding braided shape down the middle. Tempted, Jumonji strokes the knit fabric with a careful hand, and winces as his calloused fingers snag on the fuzzy wool fibers. The knit shawl is lusciously thick, and as soft as whipped cream. Jumonji had always thought of knitting as an outdated hobby, for grandmothers who had nothing else to do but produce scratchy bags of unfortunate birthday presents, but looking at Aika’s handwork gives him a whole new appreciation of needlework as an art, as luxury.

 

“Oh! Sorry, do you need the chair? I’ll just grab my-“ Aika appears at his shoulder, looking embarrassed, as if she had been caught doing something inconsiderate.

 

Jumonji shakes his head and, unthinkingly, grabs her shoulder to stop her from moving her things. “N-No, I was just looking at your knitting.”

 

“Oh, okay.” She looks from his face to his hand, and he lets his arm drop, trying to make it look casual.

 

“You’re really good.” Jumonji pauses, then elaborates, “I mean, your knitting.”

 

Aika’s lips turn up in a bashful smile. “I’d offer it to you, but I don’t think that it’s the kind of thing you’d wear, Jumonji,” she laughs shyly.

 

He looks away, trying to take up the seconds that pass by. “You can call me Kazuki,” he tells her, finally.

 

* * *

 

 

When Togano, Kuroki, and the two other men leave in the evenings, screaming about happy hour, Jumonji feels a slow, sad longing in his stomach. But following them makes him feel like he’s gingerly stepping on a raft in danger of sinking, not sure if the wood will support his weight.

 

So Jumonji stays at work later and later each week, doing all the little after-work tasks until Aika goes home. He tells himself that there’s always something to do. Things to doublecheck. Plans to go over. Files to reorganize. An empty apartment and an absent wife to avoid.

 

Aika only occasionally looks up from her crocheting and gives him a slow smile, but just hearing the clicking of needles, barely audible above the old AC unit, makes him feel less alone than during the daytime.

 

Jumonji figures that it makes him seem like a dedicated worker, or at least a diligent one. At least Musashi is impressed. “You’re really working long,” he comments one day. “You should probably go home,” he remarks another day. “Are you sure your wife doesn’t miss you?” he finally asks.

 

Jumonji explains that he’d prefer to be here, and lets Musashi assume whatever he wants to.

 

His long, late hours don’t go unnoticed by the others.

 

“You’re putting me out of my job,” Tamahachi jokes. “Leave something for me to do, will you?”

 

 “Man, I remember when we used to hide on the school roof to get out of hall duty,” Togano muses.

 

“Serious?” Shigeru snorts. “You know, I can’t really imagine you doing that, Jumonji. You’ve always been really… You know. Um, organized?”

 

Kuroki snorts. “Organized? This guy here used to have to buy two jackets a year, leaving his damn uniform all over the place like that. Man, here you are today! What happened to the old Kazuki?” he laughs.

 

Jumonji begins to chuckle along with him, but stops when he realizes it wasn’t a joke.

 

* * *

One day, before the end of the workday, Aika folds an old jacket onto his desk. “Kazuki? Here you go.”

 

“Huh? Oh, was this one ripped?” Jumonji unfolds it to examine it. The jacket’s familiar, but he doesn’t remember where he got it from- probably the last UNIQLO sale.

 

“Oh, not a rip. The patch fell off, so I sewed it back on,” she explains. “What’s… KB Alleycats?”

 

Jumonji chuckles. “Oh yeah, it’s a flag football team I used to be on, after college. But I only did it for a year.”

 

Aika looks at the patch thoughtfully. “I thought you played American football?”

 

“Mm, yeah, in high school and college, but I didn’t really have time for it after graduating- this was when I used to work at Tru, that wireless company, so…” He lets the silence trail off.

 

“Oh, that’s a shame. Gen says you were a great lineman.”

 

“Yeah, Musashi- I mean, Takekura, he’s coaching now, for the company team, isn’t he?”

 

“The Babels? Yeah!” Aika beams. “I silkscreened their jerseys, so I know each player. It’s all highschoolers now, actually. The ones whose schools don’t have a football team. They’re really funny.”

 

Jumonji admires her neat, invisible stitches. “You’re just about repaired my entire wardrobe by now.”

 

“Except for those jeans. You threw them out like I said, right?” she scolds.

 

“Oh, those? Yeah,” he lies. “Hey, Aika?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“When did you meet Takekura?”

 

Aika looks bemused at the sudden change of subject. “Well… Just last year, actually. My half-brother Onihei played on the Babels when Gen was still playing, and he introduced us, and, well, we hit off really well, and it was good timing; I was just coming in from a tough time, and- Oh, nothing,” she laughs.

 

Jumonji takes a step closer. “No, really, what?”

 

“Really, nothing. I just mean, well, we hit off really well and…” She giggles as if she can’t believe her good luck. “I mean, here we are-”

 

Shigeru and Kuroki sprint past, waving their cellphones. “Kaori-chan favorited our tweet! Kaori-chan favorited our tweet!” Kuroki screams.

 

“I come in too late for everything, don’t I?” he mumbles as they race towards the loading dock to inform Hakubun and Togano.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Oh, nothing.”

 

* * *

 

Jumonji peers at the package and turns it around in his hands, looking for a label or a barcode to scan in. There’s nothing but its accompanying stamps and a single label with the Takekura Construction office address on it. “Hey, Tamahachi. No barcode on this thing.”

 

Tamahachi leans over from his desk and examines the box himself. “Ah, you’re right. Well, open it up, see what’s inside and we can work from there.”

 

“It’d better be those DR-36 connectors,” Jumonji mutters. “I’ve called their sercice line twice, no good-“

 

“Hmm? Oh, is that-“ Musashi walks behind them, his toolbox in hand. “Ah- oh no, don’t open that,” he quickly seizes the paper box. “That’s personal mail, sorry.”

 

“Oh, all right, my bad.” Jumonji gives an apologetic shrug and offers him a roll of tape. Beside him, Tamahachi raises his eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Musashi glances away, his face clouded over. He sets the box back down on Tamahachi’s desk. “What a… Well, it is what it is.”

 

“You’re mumbling again,” Tamahachi reminds him gently.

 

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah, sorry.” The construction boss exhales. “Well, I was going to drop it off at Aika’s later but I don’t have time today-“ He looks away quickly, as if caught saying too much. “Oh, nothing, Tamahachi. Well, keep up the good work.”

 

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Jumonji speaks up. “I can drop it off for you,” he blurts out. “I mean, go off to Site 6, I’ll take care of it.”

 

Musashi chuckles. “That’s kind of you. But it’d be unfair if I made you do that.”

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “No, I’m volunteering. To help you.”

 

“It’s all right. I’ll drop it off for her tomorrow. It’s no big deal.” Giving Jumonji a distracted nod, Musashi strides off, his mind clearly somewhere else.

 

Jumonji sighs and turns back to approving requisitions. Aika hasn’t come in today. Her absence leaves him with a strange sort of disappointment. He glances over at the package again, and clears his throat. “Hey, Tamahachi.”

 

“Oh, hey. Jumonji, what’s up?”

 

“Takekura seems stressed.”

 

The older man laughs. “Understatement of the year…” he admits. “But don’t worry, he can take it. It’s just the Watabe acquisition… Well, I mean we’re trying to make it as smooth as possible, but you know how it is.”

 

Jumonji nods. “Legal stuff.”

 

“Yeah. And there’s the whole seniority problem for employee transfer… Well, I don’t blame Gen for being stressed. Really, I’ve been trying to get him to slow down…” Tamahachi glances around quickly, making sure no one else is in earshot. “I’m sort of worried about him.”

 

Jumonji nods, trying to arrange his features into concern. “How about I deliver the package for him after work?”

 

Tamahachi peers at him. “Oh, no, really, it’s not work-related so no one can ask you to-“

 

“No. Not… Not work. As a favor for an old friend,” Jumonji replies slowly. “You know how it is with Gen.”

 

“Oh, I know too well,” he laughs. “Well… He’ll be grateful for the help. And I’m grateful you’re offering for him. Here’s Aika’s address…” Tamahachi gives a subdued smile. “Hey. You and me, we can keep an eye on that guy together?”

 

“Yeah.” Jumonji nods, not meeting Tamahachi’s smile. “Yeah.”

 

Later that evening, after work, as he follows Tamahachi’s written directions down a street of buildings, Jumonji figures that that was the first dishonest thing he’d ever done. As he parks and makes his way to Aika’s door, his thoughts are heavy on him as he wonders if it’s the contents of his actions or the contents of his thoughts that matters more- if at all. He’s in a low mood by the time he distractedly rings the doorbell on Apartment 46.

 

“Gen, you’re early- Oh! Kazuki, what are you doing here and how did you know where I live?” Aika swings the door open and looks up at him in puzzlement. “Uh, not implying you’re a creepy stalker or anything, I mean- uh, I’m just a bit surprised to see you here.”

 

“Uh, Musashi- I mean, Takekura sent me,” he half-lies, holding up the package. “This yours?”

 

“What? No way! Kazuki, you really didn’t have to- sorry-“ Aika exclaims, her face sheepish and embarrassed.

 

“No, no, I needed to pick up-“ he thinks of the hobby store he just passed on the way. “-Some cards, friend’s son’s birthday. So I figured, might as well, since you’re just, what, a street away?”

 

“W-Well, I really appreciate it. Thanks Kazuki! Hey, at least come inside, I’ll put a kettle on.” She takes the package from him and waves at the interior of the apartment.

 

Jumonji takes off his shoes and slides them into alcove near the door. In the dimming light of evening, he looks down at the row of indoors slippers- all of them are dainty shades of pastel and half his size.

 

Aika laughed, realizing his predicament. “Here, you can borrow Gen’s,” she offers, pulling out a pair of large gray slippers from the shadows.

 

“Oh, thanks.” A bitter feeling comes over him at the sight of Musashi’s designated slippers, but he puts them on over his socks anyways. They’re a bit too big, but it’s a better choice than the Cinnamon Pup ones.

 

The first thing he notices about Aika’s apartment is its fresh, clean smell. Not the strong chemical room sprays Honoka is so fond of, but rather, the smell of soap and fabric softener. The space is cluttered but not dirty- stacks of new magazines mismatched drink coasters cover the small coffee table, and a plastic trunk of folded coats sticks out from the side of the loveseat. Sewing supplies and half-finished projects poke out of another container, and a veritable tower of unused fabric peers out from a corner. Vaguely, he recalls a while ago, wondering how she organized her closet, and realizes that she probably doesn’t.

 

The mess doesn’t seem to bother Aika, though. “Sayako!” she shouts, and raps on a closed door at the end of the hall. “I bought a friend over really quick, that okay?”

 

A muffled thump sounds from inside the room, followed by a faint, “Yeah, yeah, it’s all right- uh, don’t come in-“

 

When she returns to the living area, Aika fills up a kettle and puts it on the electric stove. “Well, Kazuki, thanks so much for dropping it off! I appreciate it- and I’m sure Gen does too.”

 

“It’s no problem. I was in the area anyways-“

 

“Well thanks!” She gives him her usual smile with one side quirked up higher than the other. “I’m really glad I got it in time.”

 

“Yeah… What is it, anyways? I mean, I’m just curious. You don’t have to tell me- actually, you probably shouldn’t tell me. Sorry.” Jumonji

 

“Um… Yeah. Well…” She glances around nervously, swallowing hard. “I didn’t want to tell anyone yet, but I mean, I mean I can tell you, right Kazuki?”

 

“Aika. What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. “Is everything okay?”

 

She’s silent, and he takes a step towards her. But Aika turns around abruptly, and to Jumonji’s surprise, she’s grinning from ear to ear. ““No, nothing’s wrong- I’m moving in with Gen at the end of the year- uh, I mean- Gen and I are getting married!” she exclaims, and in a fit of energy, hugs his shoulders quickly with one arm.

 

“That’s great,” Jumonji exclaims, trying to summon his last reserves of energy into sounding like he means it. He’s glad that she can’t see his face, but he reaches up an arm and hugs her back. “That’s… Really great. I’m happy for you.”

 

When she lets go, Aika is still beaming. But when she catches the forced grimace on Jumonji’s face, her expression quickly turns to alarm before softening back to her normal grin. “I-I’ll go make some tea.”

 

Somehow, he manages to stay through two cups of tea. Aika’s especially chatty today, buoyed up on elation and excitement at apparently having to tell someone. Perhaps he is only able to stay because she doesn’t talk about her impending marriage, but rather just anything and everything- the mystery of who overfed the guppy tank at work, how inconvenient the new Twitter interface is, how long she spent running around Tokyo looking for the new seasonal Gari Gari Kun flavor but all the stores were sold out.

 

Listening to her, there are moments when he feels a comfortable joy being with Aika, like the way that on a cloudy day, the occasional gap in the gray layer lets a tiny spigot of sunlight through. But they blow away just as quickly as he remembers that in less than a year, she’s going to tack on “Takekura” to the end of her name.

 

“Sorry, I should get going,” Jumonji tells her as she tries to fill up his cup for the third time.

 

Aika glances outside at the night, suddenly self-conscious. “Oh, Kazuki, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the time…”

 

“I didn’t either.”

 

“Well… Come around again sometime,” Aika tells him cheerfully, and she shows him out the door. She flicks on the front door light to illuminate the stairs ahead of him. “It’s melon float season.”

 

Jumonji practically throws Musashi’s slippers aside. “Aika- I look, I can’t. I don’t think I can.”

 

“What? ‘Course you can!” She peers at him, surprised.

 

“No, listen. It’s… Well, good night, Aika. Forget I said anything.” It’s a harsh phrase to leave on, but Jumonji doesn’t have enough energy to care.

 

Aika grabs his wrist before he can bolt. Her fingers are calloused, as rough as his own, and her grip is surprisingly strong. “You can, because-“ she looks uncomfortable. “Kazuki… I don’t have a lot of close friends, and I don’t want to lose one.”

 

He tries to look at her as he waves good night. “You don’t have to. Don’t worry,” Jumonji tells her, hoping that it’s more convincing to her than it is to him.

 

“I’m glad.” Aika smiles again, but her lips don’t quirk upwards to one side.

 

* * *

Musashi and Aika’s son is born less than a year after their wedding, something Kuroki never passes up the chance to snicker at. It’s months later, after the birth, that Aika reappears at the office, baby in arms.

 

“Wow! Great job!” Tamahachi exclaims, expertly cradling the child before handing him back to Aika. With three children of his own, the older man has plenty of experience with infants. “He looks just like you!”

 

Kuroki and Togano on the other hand, move rather timidly, warily, like monkeys approaching a crashed UFO.

 

“I read a manga about this,” Togano whispers under his breath. “It’s going to turn out to be a ghost or a spider spirit or something.”

 

“Don’t make eye contact,” Kuroki warns. “That’s how they sense fear.”

 

“They can sense fear?” Shigeru asks, face pale. “Oh shit…”

 

“Don’t be stupid!” Jumonji sighs. True, babies do make him nervous, especially this one, but only because he’s afraid that he would either hold it so tightly he squashed it, or dropped it headfirst onto the pavement.

 

“No, I think he looks a bit like a goldfish,” Shinzo shoots in. “Oops. Sorry, ma’m. Hey, little fellow, what’s your name? You gonna be the next boss?” he chuckles.

 

The baby just blows a spit bubble and stares.

 

“Yoshiyuki,” Aika laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of her son’s head.

 

“Wow, so old-fashioned!”

 

“Well, Gen and I like old-fashioned, so it fits, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Jumonji agrees half-heartedly. Yoshiyuki’s gaze falls onto him, and he flinches- was it his imagination, or is there is something accusatory, something of a condemnation, in the baby’s look?

 

* * *

In July, the bamboo tree in the office drips with paper slips. Tanabata is in a few days, and the streets outside are crowded with vendors setting up for the festival to come.

 

Aika dabs glue onto layers of brightly-colored tissue paper, humming to herself as two-year-old Yoshiyuki rams a crayon across the pages of his coloring book.

 

“Have you put your wish on yet?” Jumonji asks.

 

Aika pauses in her work to pick up one of the blank slips thoughtfully, but puts it back down. “What do I have to wish for?” she laughs. “Better to save the wishes for someone who needs them.” She blows gently on the glue, and eases the huge paper lantern open. Its delicate layers bloom widely, and her nimble fingers fluff it into shape. “I’ll hang these outside, for tomorrow.”

 

Jumonji takes one of the wishing paper slips.

 

When he returns to his apartment, Honoka is in her room, talking on the phone. The sound of muffled laughter and conversation filters out from under the door. He walks deliberately loudly in front of the door, and the apartment abruptly falls silent.

 

“Happy Tanabata,” he says to the closed door.

 

“No, that’s tomorrow, honey.”

 

* * *

“Hey. Musashi.” Jumonji strolls up to the parked truck. Its bed is full of steel parts and scaffolding, and it’s these supplies that the older man is sorting through as sun dips into evening.

 

Musashi nods in response, puts down his load, and stretches, his back popping audibly.

 

It’s the first time in a while that he’s gotten a really good look at Musashi, and he’s startled by how old his boss looks. True, Musashi had always appeared old, his features racing ahead of his actual age, but now it shows in a different way, in a resigned expression that shows in the slight furrows on his brow, the constant pursing of his lips. It’s a look that Jumonji knows well. He sees it every morning in the bathroom mirror.

 

“Did you read your evaluation?” Musashi grunts.

 

Jumonji nods, tips forward his head in a slight bow. “It was nice of you to say all that stuff.”

 

“And my recommendation?”

 

He hesitates. “That part I didn’t understand.”

 

Musashi looks at him patiently, judging his expression. “What part of ‘Vice President’ is confusing to you?” he asks bluntly.

 

Jumonji waves his hands, flustered. “No, I just mean- me? I mean, me?”

 

“We’re a construction company. Everyone here’s a construction worker, and that’s what we do. But now we’re dealing with things that aren’t just cement and steel. Papers. Legal stuff. You know. And I think it’s time to put a professional up.” Musashi explains steadily. “And isn’t this what your degree’s in?”

 

“Yes, but… You seem to already have everything under control,” Jumonji begins, but then hears how brittle and tinny his statement sounds, especially with who he is speaking to. He remembers how indifferent Musashi had appeared during construction work around campus, his blasé dismissal of the Deimon Devil Bats, and how that well-tended façade had dissolved before Hiruma’s quiet desperation. Of course Musashi would saunter by, nonchalantly shouldering what should have been the work of an entire department.

 

“Consider it,” Musashi says quietly, tiredly turning around to pick up the remaining rods.

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “No, I’ll do it,” he replies.

 

* * *

 

 

The new organizational structure of Takekura Construction comes in as smoothly as any change goes, which is not at all. When the dust settles, Musashi hands Jumonji an old cellphone.

 

“Here. You’re taking over my business number now,” Musashi explains. “We’re kind of… Departmentalizing? Is that a word? Well, we’re sorting out departments now, so I think if customers want to contact admin, well, here’s the admin number.” He gives a tired smile.

 

“All right. Should I change the numbers on my cards too?”

 

“Hmm, no, your old number will remain your main number. I’m hoping to phase this number out, though,” he says, motioning to the battered cellphone. “But just for now, while everyone’s still getting used to everything new.”

 

“All right.”

 

“Thanks.” The older man lifts up his toolbox and beings to walk away. “Just one thing, though. If…” He pauses. “If someone calls and asks specifically for me… Well, tell him this is your number now.” Musashi looks aside and coughs, as if debating whether or not to tell him something. “I’ve been having… Spam problems with this phone, sometimes. …Let me know if there are any issues, but, Jumonji, I trust that you can handle it.”

 

He nods in thanks and confusion, but what “it” is only becomes clear in the next month.

 

It’s just a text at first, from an unknown number.

 

_cant believe it._

 

Jumonji rolls his eyes and deletes the text. Probably a wrong number.

 

But they keep coming, and from different numbers as well, presumably the same contact:

 

_Old man_

_Hey_

_Old man_

_Fucking old man_

_Come on idiot_

_Helloooooooooo_

He shows Musashi the texts. Musashi sighs and tells him to block the numbers and get on with life.

 

But every time he blacklists one number, a new one pops up.

 

_old man_

_old man did you get my email_

_fucking check your fucking inbox_

_old man_

_im going to kill you_

_SERIOUSLY_

_breaking your promises_

_being late_

_you promised_

_old man did you forget_

_you promised_

_you promised!!!_

_Gonna fucking kill you_

_!!!!!!_

 

“What the hell…” Jumonji snaps at the phone and blocks the new number. At this point, the cryptic messages aren’t worth the trouble anymore- most of the customers have already learned to call either Jumonji’s number, or Musashi’s new number.

 

Finally, the phone rings. He snarls and picks it up. “Hey, you-“

 

The phone immediately starts screaming at him, and it’s a voice he hasn’t heard in almost a decade.

 

“Fucking hell, Musashi, dementia made you forgetful old ass? Get your priorities straight! What makes you think that I’m going to sit by and let you-“

 

“H-Hiruma?” Jumonji barks, manners shocked away. “What the hell-“

 

“Oh, it’s you, Scarface.” Hiruma sounds the same- older, his voice deeper, grittier, but Jumonji can practically hear the same sneer, the glint off the ex-quarterback’s smirk. “Why do you have Musashi’s phone?”

 

Jumonji shakes his head as if to clear out the surprise. It takes a few seconds more than it should have to pull together a mental picture of his old team captain. Leave it to Hiruma to suddenly appear when he was least expecting. “We’re reorganizing, reshuffling departments. This is my number now. Uh, Hiruma-“

 

“Whatever. Put Musashi on the line,” he orders brusquely.

 

Jumonji isn’t unintelligent. When the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, he knows to heed it. “Sorry, I can’t do that. He’s not here right now,” he lies, wondering if Hiruma can somehow see the silhouette of the construction boss through the screen in the window.

 

“Well, go get him then.” Hiruma’s voice is impatient, and the effect is doubled by the static- wherever the blonde’s calling from, it probably isn’t nearby.

 

He knows the smell of lightning- not the actual strike or flash, but the hazy smell of ozone, the change in air pressure before a storm front rolls in. Right now, the air is laden with electricity, pressing in around him. Jumonji takes a deep breath to gather his gut feeling: danger. “I don’t know what you want with Musashi. I didn’t even know you were in contact with Musashi.” He chooses his words carefully. “But if you need him, call him yourself.”

 

“Tch.” The line disconnects abruptly, leaving a single tone in its wake.

 

Hiruma doesn't call again, and Jumonji doesn’t mention it to Musashi. Maybe it’s a sixth sense, or maybe it’s just his experience knowing how Hiruma works, but he is quietly aware that whatever is going on, he doesn’t want to know more.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning. Takekura Construction, Jumonji speaking.”

 

“Kazuki? Hello, this is-“

 

“Aika?” he asks, dropping his pen in surprise.

 

Her voice is worried but calm. “Yes, this is Aika- is Gen at work?”

 

“Um, no, he hasn’t come back yet. When did he say he was coming back from that offshore drilling thing?”

 

Her voice is unusually fast, her syllables nearly scrambled. “He was supposed to be back yesterday evening, and he hasn’t come back home yet either, and he’s not answering his phone- and, well, what I mean, if you see him, please tell him to call me back right away- oh, I’m just worrying over nothing, aren’t I?” she asks with a shaky laugh. “It’s weird, I just have a weird feeling…”

 

“I’m pretty sure it’s nothing. If he comes to work first, I’ll call you.”

 

“Thank you.” She hangs up.

 

Jumonji spins his chair around. “Hey. Tamahachi. Musashi hasn’t stopped by, has he?”

 

“No, but if you see him, tell him I need to talk to him about a supplier,” the older man says nonchalantly. “He’s probably tired from his trip.”

 

He shakes his head. “No, Aika just called. He hasn’t come home yet.”

 

Tamahachi stops typing and turns around. “What?”

 

“Musashi hasn’t come home yet, and he’s not here. I mean, I’m just it’s nothing, probably just delay, but I’m just confused because, well, it’s Musashi. He’s only been late one time in his life.”

 

Tamahachi looks deep in thought. “Let me call him.”

 

“All right.” Jumonji crosses his arms and watches as Tamahachi dials his cellphone. With every passing tone, his frown deepens.

 

He redials. “That’s strange. Well, I’ll leave a voicemail- oh! Hello!” An expression of relief crosses his face, only to drop into alarm. “Yes, officer? Yes, my name is Yoshio Tamahachi. I’m his employee. Yes, officer. No, officer, he hasn’t come home. His wife called. No, officer, this is unusual for him.”

 

Minutes tick by, agonizingly slow, as Tamahachi listens to the voice on the other side of the line, giving only “yes” or “no.” Finally, he hangs up, and sits back, closing his eyes.

 

“Call a body meeting,” he orders, not opening his eyes. “I think it’s serious.”

 

* * *

 

“Search Continues for Businessman Lost at Sea,” the headline reads.

 

“C-Construction worker,” Aika corrects, staring at the words. “Not businessman- he’s a construction worker…”

 

Jumonji glances at the column. It’s just a recap of the events of the last five days, about how Musashi had gone to supervise the construction of a private warehouse on a tiny island just off the coast. How he told his customer, on his last evening, that he was going to take a boat out for a last final check of the cement. How he had purchased two bottles of vodka at the local mart, which were later discovered, empty, in his hotel room. And how the next day, his boat had been found capsized, pulled by the current down to the next bay over.

 

As the Vice-President, Jumonji’s statement to the press it printed at the bottom: “We continue to pray for his safe return during these troubled times.” A clean, bland message that doesn’t even hint at the people back home.

 

The Ha-Ha Brothers are subdued. Even loudmouthed Shigeru’s lips are clamped close. Tamahachi forgets to color his hair, and the roots grow in as white as salt.

Jumonji’s worried, for Musashi. He’s worried, for the company. And he’s worried for Aika.

 

After the first three days, she doesn’t come in anymore. Her half-finished knitting is just as she left it on her chair. Whenever someone starts any heavy machinery nearby, the vibrations make her red pens roll off of her desk until none of them are left.

 

It’s only one day, unexpectedly, that he hears her voice again at the office, from the conference room with Tamahachi.

 

“-But his will is pretty clear. I don’t think we’ll have any problems,” the older man explains. His low voice carries well, through the metal of the doorframe.

 

“Yes… I’m just sort of surprised. Everything’s so organized, prepared…”

 

Tamahachi’s slow laugh. “That’s Gen for you.”

 

Aika’s voice falls silent.

 

“I’m sorry, Aika. This must be a hard time. If there’s anything at all…”

 

“It’s… Sudden,” she says.

 

“I know.”

 

When Aika speaks again, it’s so quiet that Jumonji can hardly hear her from the outside corner of the room. “So sudden- it must have been the devil,” she muses. “The devil came and pulled my husband to the bottom of the ocean.”

 

* * *

 

The death certificate of Gen Takekura is official. Immediately, almost indecently soon, his affairs are put to order, and the continuation of Takekura Construction paved ahead by a living will last updated, fortunately, just the year before. There’s a lot of it that he doesn’t understand, but he and Tamahachi are meeting with the lawyer again tomorrow to discuss it.

 

Before then, there’s someone he needs to see. He’s been to Musashi’s house before, on a few occasions, and he remembers the way there as if he had been there his whole life.

 

There’s a woman in a stylish coat outside the door, her finger poised above the doorbell. She seems familiar, and when she turns around, Jumonji recognizes her face. “Anezaki. What are you doing here?”

 

Mamori looks strained. The creased lines around her glossy lips are deeper than ever. “Jumonji? I’m seeing Aika.”

 

“Oh. Well, I came here to see her too.”

 

She stops and gives him almost a grimace. “No, please, I think it’s best I talk to her alone, for now,” Mamori insists.

 

He stops. “Why? What’s wrong?”

 

Mamori sighs, apparently debating how much emotional energy she wants to put into explaining to him. “Please, I think it’s better this way-“

 

“Why? I mean I-“

 

“No.” Mamori’s face is set.

 

Jumonji nods and turns around, but continues speaking. “Anezaki, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

 

Jumonji hesitates, and then tells her his concerns. “They’re calling this a clear case-closed. Accidental death, drunkenness, drowning. But Musashi doesn’t drink.”

 

She gives a sad smile. “Well, some people are full of surprises, I guess.”

 

He’s walked a few yards away before Mamori speaks again.

 

“I-I’m not going to tell Aika you were here.”

 

* * *

 

Jumonji steps into the Takekura Construction office for the first time as the acting president. With Tamahachi and his veteran team supervising the construction, the only change to his work is that now there’s a great deal more of it.

 

“Good morning,” Kuroki says, his eyes shifting around as if he’s unsure of where to put his gaze. Beside him, Togano pauses, and then bows stiffly.

 

Jumonji pretends he didn’t see. “Good morning.”

 

There’s a silence only partially due to the three of them, the old Ha-Ha Brothers, trying to figure out how to address each other.

 

“I turned in the job list for last week,” Kuroki finally says.

 

“All right. Good.” Jumonji shifts his weight from foot to foot.

 

“Well. Um. Let me know if there’s anything else.”

 

Jumonji clenches his fists. “Kuroki-“

 

Kuroki turns around and takes his hands out of his pocket. “Yes?”

 

Jumonji shakes his head. “Nothing.”

 

Togano and Kuroki are silent for a while, and then Jumonji realizes why: neither of them have ever been very good at talking to strangers.

 

“Keep it up,” he says dully, and turns away.

 

* * *

 

As Jumonji waits for one of their suppliers to get back on the line, he looks up and slams the phone down as a familiar silhouette appears, backlit against the afternoon outside. Aika steps in, carrying her sleeping three-year-old daughter in one arm and her purse in the other.

 

"Good afternoon, Tamahachi." Her voice is surprisingly stern, as if she had just committed herself to a matter of great dignity.

 

"Hello, Aika. Hey…” Tamahachi nods gently at her. “I’m glad to see you again. But shouldn’t you be-“

 

“Who’s going to be the copyediting genius,” she jokes, recalling his tease from years ago.

 

Jumonji forces himself not to look up as she takes her seat at her old desk next to him. But his head jerks up of its own accord, drawn to Aika the way a stone is drawn to earth. “Aika? You really don’t have to- we have everything under control-“

 

“No, I have work to do now, don’t I?” she asks. The usual laugh that follows her voice is quieter, quicker to disappear into the air.

 

“Take care of yourself first,” he mutters, taken aback by his own boldness.

 

But Aika gives a small smile- a sort one, with no hint of bitterness. “Gen was… He was the one that I could count on. No matter what changed, no matter what happened, I knew I could count on counting on him.”

 

Jumonji shook his head. “Listen, Aika… We have everything under control. If you need to- you know, get things together again… Take care of…“

 

“Thank you, Jumonji. That’s considerate of you. But now Gen’s counting on me, for everything he left behind.” She doesn’t end her sentence with a giggle or a self-deprecating remark. It’s almost as if it were someone else, a stranger, speaking with Aika’s face.

 

It takes him a while to realize that it isn’t her voice that’s unfamiliar, it’s how she addressed him. Jumonji takes a deep breath. Musashi seems to linger, in the company, in its workers, in everything to the gravel scraps in the truck beds- and not in a comforting way, but in a stifling way. And Jumonji realizes that Musashi will remain as well, for Aika: alive he was a husband, dead, he was a saint. “…Let me know if you need anything,” Jumonji mutters, and turns away.

 

* * *

 

Tanabata is tomorrow, but he doesn’t have any desire to go. The bustle and the lantern-lit crowds, the warm balmy night and the moon shining through the thin layer of clouds, feel irrelevant to him. The laughter and lights seem immature, childish, as if he understood them in a way no one else could or was willing to. _This must be how kids seem to adults,_ he thinks.

 

Jumonji takes out the wishing paper and begins to write, using the back of his phone as a surface. Ink smears across his thumb as he writes, and keeps writing, until both sides of the slip of paper are covered in words.

 

When he’s finished, he reads it over again, and with a sigh, throws it into the cement pouring in front of him. The wishing paper lands on the surface, and lingers there for a few moments before being sucked under.


End file.
